


Something's Cooking

by fandomfrolics



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baking, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2784164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomfrolics/pseuds/fandomfrolics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt 'Steve takes up baking and accidentally woos Tony with baked goods'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something's Cooking

It feels like a regular Tuesday. Tony’s just coming back from a long day of meetings and all he wants to do is disappear down to his lab and remind himself why he put up with that shit in the first place. 

He steps out of the elevator and his nose twitches. There’s a strange smell wafting over, a mix of cinnamon and…he sniffs again…something he really cannot identify right now, god, that’s going to nag at him. He’s just going to have to check it out for himself then, isn’t he?

_Grghglgh._ His stomach seems to agree.

He loosens his tie and meanders towards the kitchen. As he gets closer a soft murmur reaches his ears, tugging him along his path just as much as the smell.

"…one cup butter, got it, okay in goes the cream cheese and oh, wow, okay, that’s, hmm, well, whatever. Let’s see—"

"Whatcha doing?"

Steve jumps at Tony’s voice and the cup measure in his hand twitches and suddenly there’s white powder everywhere, all over Steve’s face and his hair and oh god…

"Nice apron," he smirks and Steve flushes, tugging at the black and blue fabric and sending a cloud of powder flying.

"Thor got it for me." Steve pulls a face. "You know how he gets ab-ab-ahCHOO!"

A laugh bubbles out of Tony before he can catch it, which he sort of regrets because Steve looks so woebegone and Tony doesn’t want him to think he’s making fun of him but oh god, there’s powder floating all around him and Steve is desperately trying not sneeze again and he’s wearing an apron with his  _own costume on it—_

"Oh, shut up," Steve grouches. Tony straightens up with no little effort, his sides aching from laughing so hard, and dabs at Steve’s nose. He licks his finger carefully and finds the mysterious powder to be icing sugar.

He smacks his lips. “What are you making?” he asks, glancing around the messy kitchen. There are dirty bowls and spoons everywhere, ingredients scattered all over the counter and the island and in the middle of the mess, an old recipe book propped up, it’s pages weathered and littered with stains.  The smell is thick and pervasive here and somehow seems to warm him from the inside.

"Cinnamon rolls," Steve replies shortly, but the grumpiness in his face softens at the genuine interest in Tony’s tone. "For your birthday," he adds grudgingly.

 ”For my…” Tony’s eyebrows shoot up. “ _Why?_ " He dusts halfheartedly at the counter and hops up onto it and Steve turns away from his concoction to face him. _“_ I mean, you know we can just get catering or something.”

Steve just stares at him like he’s an idiot. “You’re an idiot,” he says. He’s about to say something more when the oven dings.

Steve goes towards it, snagging a pair of oven mitts along the way, and pulls it open. The wonderful smell hits Tony full force and his stomach grumbles again, much louder than before. Steve raises an eyebrow at him as he sets the tray down near Tony and tugs off the mitts, which are bright blue to match his apron, and Tony bites his lip so he won’t start giggling again.

Steve just shakes his head because of course he sees right through him and turns back to whatever it was he was doing before the room turned into what looked like a drug bust gone horribly.

Tony quietly picks up a fork, tinged with what looks to be raw egg, and sticks it in one of the pastries cooling in the muffin tray. He digs out a big bite and blows on it carefully, because, despite what Steve said, he’s not actually an idiot, and then shoves it in his mouth.

The sensation is immediate and somehow manages to overpower the sense of  _ouch, oh man, that’s hot, fuckfuckfuck,_ that’s also filling his mouth. Instead he’s brought back to when he was six and his mom and dad had been fighting and she’d decided that no, she wasn’t going to be Howard’s accessory to that damn party and instead she’d stayed at home with Tony and he’d ventured out of his room to find her waiting with hot pastries and a stack of movies and oh no how the fuck does just a bite of cinnamon roll do this to his stomach?

He must have made a sound because Steve whirls around and is looking at him, eyes wide, and Tony manages to swallow before he chokes out “‘s good.”

"Are you okay?" Steve asks worriedly, stepping forward.

And no, he’s not okay. He’s sitting here in his fucking two-thousand dollar suit, which probably has egg and sugar and flour on it now, and he’s cranky with his investors and he’s burned the fucking roof of his mouth, fuck coffee was going to hurt tomorrow.

And Steve is standing there, powdered sugar still dusted through his hair and a bit of butter on his cheek and his forehead is creased and he was making cinnamon rolls for  _Tony_ and he’s sure, somehow, that he’d made some passing comment about them that Steve grabbed on to and remembered because he’s fucking Steve and is the most—

"Gah!" Steve blurts out as Tony tugs him forward by the front of that damn apron and that’s really all he has time to say before Tony is latching his mouth onto Steve’s and the taste of sugar is oh so sweet but not as sweet as this, not as sweet as Steve and oh god, definitely not, not ever as sweet as Steve kissing back.


End file.
